


Mistakes Made While Drunk

by Moorishflower



Series: The Mistakes 'Verse [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-13
Updated: 2010-06-13
Packaged: 2017-10-10 02:39:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/94524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moorishflower/pseuds/Moorishflower
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With the Apocalypse over and done with, and all the angels heading back to Heaven (yeah, even the dead ones), Dean realizes that the only thing he really wants is for things to stay the same.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mistakes Made While Drunk

**Author's Note:**

  * For [speccygeekgrrl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/speccygeekgrrl/gifts).



  
  
  
  
  


**Entry tags:**

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[dean/gabriel](http://moorishflower.livejournal.com/tag/dean/gabriel), [fanfiction](http://moorishflower.livejournal.com/tag/fanfiction), [fic](http://moorishflower.livejournal.com/tag/fic), [rating: pg-13](http://moorishflower.livejournal.com/tag/rating:%20pg-13), [supernatural](http://moorishflower.livejournal.com/tag/supernatural), [writefest 2010](http://moorishflower.livejournal.com/tag/writefest%202010)  
  
  
---|---  
  
  
  
“Oh God,” Dean says, and rolls onto his back so that he can stare up at the blessedly eggshell-white ceiling, which is slightly less offensive than the walls, which are papered with what looks like ducks holding umbrellas.

On a scale of one to ten, he rates his current feeling of ‘I’m pathetic’ at a nice, solid seven. It could be worse. He could be waking up next to a chick with no skin on her face (which is totally a possibility, considering the lifestyle that he and Sam live, so he’s counting his blessings). And the ceiling is nice and not adding to his nausea at all, which is more than he’s usually able to say (he’s been in a few motels where the desire for insanity-inducing wallpaper had extended to plastering the ceiling with the shit).

Dean cautiously runs his palms down his sides, over his chest and arms and shoulders, looking for injuries. He hesitantly trails his fingers lower, and sighs when he realizes that, not only has he not sustained any lasting damage on the rest of his body, his dick is also unharmed. Which means he didn’t go skank-diving last night. Maybe Sammy’s reprimands are sinking in after all.

“Morning, sweetheart,” a voice breathes in his ear, and Dean turns his head, because that definitely wasn’t a girl.

Gabriel grins back at him.

Dean decides to go back to sleep.

~

_Eighteen hours earlier…_

“So this…this is like parol,” Dean says, trying to straighten the idea out in his head. Sam is leaning against his shoulder, snoring softly. They’ve both had a lot to drink in the past few hours, but it’s _celebratory_ drinking, not ‘oh God the world is ending’ drinking, so Dean feels better about it.

Sam snuffles and then drools on Dean’s shoulder. Dean’s feeling magnanimous, so he doesn’t immediately shove his little brother off the couch they’re sitting on.

They’re in a bar, a _classy_ bar, with couches and decorative pillows and a bartender who doesn’t scowl over the fact that they’re probably drinking the taps dry. Gabriel says it’s his favorite place to hang out, aside from the Spearmint Rhino, and that’s just about the coolest thing Dean has ever heard _anyone_ say, ever.

But he’s also very, very drunk, so that probably doesn’t mean as much as he thinks it does.

“A cosmic do-over,” Dean continues. “Second chances and…and all that. But with a catch.”

“Well, the catch is that I have to return to Heaven,” Gabriel says, shrugging and sipping his ludicrously fruity-looking mixed drink. It has pineapple chunks in it, for Christ’s sake. “And to tell the truth? That’s getting off easy. No punishment, no make-up test, nothing. All I have to do is go home. And it’ll be…” Something crosses Gabriel’s expression, some shadow of pain that has Dean leaning drunkenly forward and patting the archangel’s shoulder. “It’ll be easier, now that Michael’s gone. There’ll probably be less fighting. Although Zachariah is going to throw so many tantrums, I don’t even know where to begin.”

“I hate that douchebag,” Dean groans.

“So does everyone else, right now. That’s why he’s polishing armor and shields for the next couple millennia.”

“Serves him right.” Dean takes a pull of his beer (it’s _really_ good beer), then stares at the bottle when he realizes he’s just emptied it.

Gabriel snaps his fingers, and suddenly Dean is holding a fresh one. It’s cold as ice against his palm, and Dean beams.

“You’re like, the best person,” he says.

“Thought you were all buddy-buddy with Castiel.”

Dean lifts one shoulder, a half-shrug. “We were. For a while, I guess. But it’s different now. Cas is all…”

Dean makes a gesture that he hopes conveys the fact that Castiel is busy playing angel housekeeper, while Dean is stuck here on Earth, waiting for a reward that will never come. And he _knows_ he’s never going to get praised for all the shit they went through.

And still he waits.

It’s fucking depressing.

“I gotcha,” Gabriel says. “I always felt that way with Michael. He was always so high and mighty – oh, go fetch me my battle armor, Gabriel, go announce the birth of the Christ child, Gabriel – but who was the one who taught him how to blend in with humans? _Me_, that’s who. I’m surprised he didn’t have a nervous breakdown when I left.”

“I miss Cas,” Dean says mournfully. “Now all I have is you. And even _you’re_ going away.”

Sam makes an intensely unattractive noise against Dean’s bicep, so he shoves his brother until he tips over and rests against the other end of the couch. Sam doesn’t wake, not once.

“Hey,” Gabriel says, “you’ll still have you’re brother. Robert Singer. Tons of people. And you _saved_ them all. By being an unrepentant jackass, but still. You saved them.”

“Not the same,” Dean sighs. “I wish there was some way I could…I don’t know. Get you and Cas to stick around. Without Heaven getting all…” He makes a hand gesture that looks more like he’s trying to convey the fact that he’s lost his duck. “…Smite-y.”

Gabriel’s eyes narrow. Sort of contemplative.

“_Well_,” he says.

~

_Eighteen hours later!_

“It’s really not _that_ bad.”

Dean hangs his head over the toilet, groaning. “I can feel you being smug. I can _feel_ you, Jesus Christ.”

“Oh, if _only_. If you’d let me near you I could heal that hangover of yours.”

“You touched my _soul_,” Dean says, and yeah, that basically sounds like he’s accusing Gabriel of raping him (which it isn’t, because Dean distantly recalls that _soul-deep consent_ was a requirement, somewhere during the process), but still, _not cool_. Gabriel totally could have at least waited until he was sober. “If you come near me I’m going to puke on your face.”

Gabriel raises his hands in surrender.

“Suit yourself,” he says, and saunters back out into the bedroom (which is a lot more palatial than Dean remembers it being), flopping down onto a bed covered with what looks like silk sheets, and then idly turns on the television and starts flipping through the channels.

Dean manages to hold out for another five minutes, retching over the altar to the porcelain god, before he meekly climbs to his feet and then staggers out into the bedroom.

Gabriel smirks when he works his magic, the asshole, but his fingertips are two points of warmth against Dean’s temple, and suddenly all the aches and pains are gone. Even the nausea is suspiciously absent.

“You _do_ know that this means you get your wish, right?”

Dean makes a face. “My secret wish to be soul-bonded to a huge dick? Yeah, I can see how this might count.”

Gabriel leers at him. “Good to know you have _secret wishes_ about me. But, no, I’m talking about Castiel. And me, of course. And your apparent desire for us to stay here, on Earth. Give it a day, and Heaven’s going to be sending down the full force of its legal time. And I say ‘legal team’ because there isn’t really a human term for it. It’s to insure that we’ve entered into this arrangement willingly.”

“How does _that_ help? Like, at all?”

Gabriel rolls his eyes. “Please. You didn’t think Castiel was some sort of high roller, did you? The First War saw Heaven losing _thousands_ of warriors, Dean. Angels born and bred, if you’ll forgive the terminology, for battle. Almost all of them died, or defected to Lucifer. So, like with any army, we started recruiting civilians, training them up. Castiel was an archivist, before he was put through boot camp. Handled the historical documents of Heaven, if you will.”

Dean blinks. “Cas was a _librarian_?”

“Hoo boy, if you call him _that_ he’s gonna be pissed. But, essentially, yes. So guess who gets sent down when something momentous happens. Like, say, an archangel bonding with a human.”

“An archivist,” Dean says faintly. “Because it needs to be…documented?”

“Documented and _monitored_. Extensively. It’s a big deal, an archangel deciding to bond with someone. Sort of like a king getting married.”

“You’re an asshole if you just called yourself a king,” Dean points out.

“I said _like_ a king.”

“Still counts.”

Dean punches Gabriel in the shoulder, and the archangel retaliates by snapping his fingers and then shoving a handful of ice down Dean’s shirt.

And all the while Dean is thinking (maybe, sort of, kind of), _I could get used to this_.  


_   
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**Author's Note:**

> Written for WriteFest 2010, for speccygeekgrrl's prompt "Dean/Gabriel, soulbonding for the lulz."


End file.
